


Stormvalley

by anniesburg



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Drunk Touching, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Injury, Slow Burn, blood mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-12-07 02:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18228749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: You move softly, too soft to resist. And he thought he knew resistance.





	1. G

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a rapid-fire collection of drabbles about how javier falls in love. roughly 200-700 words apiece.

You leave a plate of supper for him and he understands the depth of the gesture. 

You’ve warmed yourself by the fire, eyes closed to better appreciate the sound of his music. He’ll have to stop and eat eventually, but you’ll prolong his playing for as long as you can. Javier smiles at you as you sit on a log. 

The crackling flames rise to smoke, it dances in the air. Above his head and all around are pinpoints of light like holes cut in blue-black velvet. You haven’t touched your food yet, you’re still looking at him with a faint expression of admiration. 

He’s been hungry before, this is nothing. He finishes the song for you before setting his guitar aside. Javier gestures with his hand, a nod of thanks to you for bringing this to him. 

And when he does, you pick up your plate. 

“You help make this?” He asks, poking at potatoes and an unidentifiable meat. Javier intends to eat what he’s given, of course, but he can’t stop himself from commenting. 

“Me?” You ask, looking up at him. Your brow furrows and shake your head. “Yeah, why do you ask?” 

“It’s good,” Javier hastily takes another bite. He’s not sure if you saw his earlier expression of distaste. To his surprise, you laugh loudly. It makes a lethargic Swanson flinch. 

“Oh, you’re a liar!” You exclaim, thoroughly and clearly amused. Javier shrugs. 

“I’ve had worse, didn’t mean any offence,” he offers. You wave him away, hardly dismissive— more understanding. 

“I can’t cook, but it helps take some of the load off our resident chef. I’m better at stitching.” You admit. Javier very purposefully rolls his shoulder. 

“The seam hasn’t split yet,” he replies. 

“And it never will again. Waxed linen thread, toughest there is.” You take another bite of supper with only a mild wince. 

“Wouldn’t be surprised if a bullet could ricochet off it,” Javier agrees more heartily than you expect. 

“For the love of God, don’t test that,” you tell him. “but you don’t gotta wait until your clothes give up the ghost next time, mhm?” 

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he says. You get the feeling he will. 

You’re supposed to rise when supper’s over, to help with the washing-up. But Javier picks up his guitar again without you having to ask. You take his tin plate, it rattles atop yours but you don’t walk away. 

Sitting back down on the log, you watch him fiddle with the keys. He turns them ever so slightly, just a hair to the left or right before strumming a few notes. Then, Javier lifts his head. He looks at you expectantly. 

“Do you remember the Mary Ellen Carter? I think I—” you showed him how to play it, not that you understood the machinations of his instruments. You, drunk, sang him the chorus a few times until he could pick out the notes from the slurring. 

“Think so,” he responds, sounding amused. He remembers, you’re sure, the impromptu lesson after insisting he play your favourite song. “starts off with a G, yeah?” 

Old battleaxe-Grimshaw’ll yell at you. But you’ve decided it’s worth it.


	2. Bottle Incident

A hard heart he wants, a hard heart he lacks.

Your hands are unapologetically soft, running over the top of his spine and across his shoulder blades. He doesn’t like to be touched, but you’re drunk and gentle. Javier’ll allow this, even if his nerves do make a terrible sound. 

“You look handsome,” you slur. 

The drink makes you honest, you’re in talks with modesty. Javier’s chest blooms. He used to like a nice compliment, once. Now he just feels frail, paper-thin. His cold hand comes and rests atop yours, he gives an affectionate squeeze.

“You want a song, eh? Could just ask.” He phrased it like a joke and you laugh so loud again. 

“No, just—” you struggle for the words but finally decide on “just wanna talk. You got a calmin’ voice.”

“You’re drunk.” He says. You smile and sit heavily next to him. 

“I’m right.” You lean bodily towards him, your amiable nature coils around him. 

Like a snake, somewhere dark whispers to him. No, another part corrects. A louder part. It wraps like a blanket.

“Oh, shit,” you curse, you begin to shift away from him. It’s a slovenly nightmare if unsure movement.

“Eh?” He asks, looking to you with concern.

“Didn’t ask. That’s rude,” you start but Javier shrugs a shoulder in response.

“If I didn’t want it, I wouldn’t have let you. Come on,” he gestures this time, it’s welcoming. 

You’d shuffle back to him, settling against his side. 

“Are you tired, honey?” You ask. “It’s late.”

“Not yet. Wanted to watch the stars a little longer.” He replies. You nod slowly. 

“Can I stay?” You try, he doesn’t know why you do. But you feel warm as fire, warm as blood next to him and the night air’s made him snow-cold. You press your cheek against the fabric covering his shoulder.

“I can’t make you go,” he says. “but if I didn’t want you here I’d try to.” 

That, to his surprise, makes you laugh. It’s remarkably clear for your state, that tightness in his chest returns. You press one hand to your heart, the other to his knees. Your skyward eyes close and you turn your head towards his neck. If he could hear you laugh forever, he wouldn’t object.


	3. Pain, Pain

“You’re bleeding.” You say without emphasis, understanding to an extant that screaming about it will solve nothing. 

Javier’s initial response is to stuff his injured hand in his pocket, out of sight. He doesn’t quite know why, he can hear his mother’s voice at the back of his mind telling him to let her see. 

“Uh-uh,” is all you say, with a quiet firmness. “can I—” you ask before grabbing his arm, at least. Javier doesn’t force you to touch him, he shows you the reminders of a bad morning. 

He’s usually better at five finger fillet. Or at least not so reckless as to accidentally remove anything he might need. But the cut on his middle finger is proving to be a problem, he doesn’t want to bleed on you. 

“Poor honey,” it doesn’t sound like something you intended to voice aloud, in fact you glance up at him with a slight twinge of panic. Javier lets himself smirk as you return to inspecting his hand. 

It looks like it stings, you think. It’s what has you grabbing for your knife and clean handkerchief in your pocket. You say nothing as you walk away, but his palm’s still half-held in your hand. He decides to follow. 

You settle by the fire, insisting with a look for him to sit. He’s never seen you so intensely fish a mug full of water out of the barrel nearby. Half it’s poured into the empty pot hanging above the flame. 

Bunching the cloth with the delicate, floral embroidery at the edges over the blade of the knife, you pull and cut it in two. You pocket the knife. 

The other half of the water is tipped over part of your handkerchief as you sit down in front of him. Your hand held out is his cue to put his injury back in to your line of sight. 

“Won’t need stitches.” He says with more certainty than you like. The insides of his fingers bear faint lines from where this has happened before. Nevertheless, you plunge the cloth into the water and begin to dab at the bloody cut. 

“I’d tell you to be more careful,” you start, “but I know you are.” Javier will take that admission, he couldn’t stomach a lecture and a nurse visit. 

You still feel sorry for him when he flinches just slightly, he notices you’re a little gentler after that. Pain doesn’t bother him, he could say that with a similarly alarming certainty. But to be unbothered by pain all alone is never appealing. 

He is, in a small way, glad that you noticed the harsh red of his blood on the table. 

You wait until the water’s boiling, saying little. It isn’t as if he attempts conversation either, but he shifts a little when a much hotter and now-pink-coloured cloth is pressed to his wound. But you don’t tut, you don’t tell him to be brave. 

Javier’s brave already. You’re no idiot. 

“Almost done,” you say to inform rather than reassure. It isn’t as if he came to you on his knees crying in pain. You’re the one fussing, he’s indulging you. 

The half-handkerchief that’s wet is discarded in favour of the piece you cut earlier. You tie it around the base of his finger, knotting it delicately— not too tightly. 

“Thank you,” you tell him before he has the chance to say it to you. Javier looks at you from under the brim of his bowler hat, you’re smiling sheepishly. 

“Could say the same to you,” he replies. But he does not yet stand. “you didn’t have to—”

“Tell me next time,” you say. “so I can help again.” He nods. You know he’ll do no such thing.


End file.
